Reflections of the Enchantress
by DallaLuna
Summary: I knew that the enchantment would change him, but I never anticipated the metamorphasis that took place.' The enchantress who cast the spell realizes the man she loved is not the Beast before her. And the entire reason is the daughter of a poor merchant.


**Summary:** "I knew that the enchantment would change him, but I _never_ anticipated the metamorphasis that took place." The enchantress who cast the spell realizes the man she loved is not the Beast before her. And the entire reason is the daughter of a poor merchant.

**A/N**: I imagine something of this sort has been written before; you know, the enchantress' POV and her reasons for what she did. I just thought that I'd try my hand at it. It was interesting to write from the perspective of the "villian" for once. (Though she's really not _that_ bad.) I think this story will have, at the most, three chapters. We'll see.

(Also, the whole "race of Cain" thing was inspired by "Beowulf"and _Grendel,_ both of which I had to read over the summer... P.S.- _Grendel_ rocks. Read it. Seriously.)

**A/N 2:** Felt randomly compelled to clean this story up.

* * *

**REFLECTIONS OF THE ENCHANTRESS**

* * *

"You wish to leave me," he says, sighing, his voice deep and guttural. He looks more a beast now than ever before, as bereft as a great bear struck down by a hunter's arrow.

I wish to scream and curse him and make him realize what she is: quaint and sweet. She is not the sort of girl he would have given a second glance before and not at all the sort who could bear the intrigues and betrayals of life at court. And she is _not_ the pinnacle of loveliness, though in foolishness he apparently believes her to be. Years of seclusion must have skewed his judgment, but my mind is still sharp and my eyes perceptive.

I know. I am _far_ fairer than she.

"It is not that I wish to leave you," she replies, her expression vacillating between anger, sadness, and longing. "It is simply that I miss my family. And if you would permit it, I would visit them for only a brief time. I have never asked you for anything. They are my family, for God's sake!"

Oh, poor, poor dear! How foreign she is to this dark and cursed place: a creature of light shrouded in shadows that threaten to engulf her. She should be frolicking in her father's garden, basking in the warm caress of the sun. I've watched her and I know that longing in her eyes. She is a nymph, a fairy, an imp. The girl is just that: a _girl_. How could he force her from her father and her hopeful world into this castle steeped in darkness and desolation? What selfishness!

(I try to forget my own self-centeredness.)

His attempts to incite warmth in her sweet little heart were not—to my great displeasure—entirely unsuccessful. The curse has somehow woven her into its very core. I myself do not understand it, though I suppose it is the nature of magic to work against you if it has the chance. She has become the soul of the enchantment, the creature upon which all his hope of redemption now hinges. I never thought there would be a girl when I added that clause, to be honest. The only reason I put it in was so he would think that I had some noble intent in cursing him. I don't think it fooled him for a second, though. If anything, he saw it as a taunt and hated me with more ardor than ever.

And now it has led us both to varying degrees of ruin. (My 'ruin'—so to speak—being far less dire than his.) I have lost him to her forever. Not that it makes much of a difference. He'll die when she leaves him.

"I can deny you nothing, Beauty," he whispers, amber eyes despondent. "You know that. Go to your father and your sisters. But take the ring that I have given you. Return within a week, dear Beauty, if you care for me at all."

I scoff to myself, amused by how soft he's gotten. He was an absolute tyrant as a man: impatient, self-entitled, impossible, callous... And now he is a seven foot tall beast, as formidable as any that nature herself could boast, and he is as docile as a lamb. And far more pathetic at that.

I knew the enchantment would change him. I thought that it would simply wear him down to the point where he'd want me back, but it seems that no magic on earth could perform _that_ feat. I _never_ anticipated the metamorphosis that took place. He is not my Prince Armel anymore. I suppose that fact should lessen my possessiveness—after all, he is not even the man that I've longed for.

But it does not. I am, as I said, selfish. Whoever he is now, he is still mine.

'Beauty' has vowed her intent to return and is smiling at him brightly. It is sweet that she has such faith that things will turn out right. ('Right' is subjective, of course, but her understanding of it is obvious.) Children are always optimistic, though. I wonder if she still believes in fairy tales and knights in shining armor. I do not doubt it. After all, she is hardly more than sixteen. She _is_ a precocious girl, though. Surely—even if she cannot fully comprehend it—she senses the fatalism that is palpable in the air.

But she ignores it. Who can blame her? With freedom so near, why dwell upon that nagging concern in the back of her mind? She flits off, away to pack, she says. Up the staircase she goes with her spirited gait, dreaming (undoubtedly) of the days to be spent with her father and sisters in the sacred places of her youth. I watch her, as I have watched her before, impassively. _Gabrielle_? Is that her name?

"I don't mind Gabrielle terribly," I say aloud, my voice a supercilious simper. "That _is_ what she's called, is it not? Well, whatever her name is, she's tolerable."

I emerge from 'thin air' as they call it; we magical entities can slip about relatively unnoticed unless we wish to be seen. And I _do_ wish for him to see me. It always thrilled me the way he gnashed his teeth and bellowed in fury when I intruded upon his moments of reverie. But now he only spares me a momentary glance, a hateful one, and continues to pace. His wilted carriage bespeaks his torment, and even I am moved to pity.

I do— or _did_—love him after all, in my own twisted way.

"Let me be," he says simply. "I yield myself to my fate. You have won."

I move towards him, cautiously, wary of an explosion of temper. I extend my slender hand to touch his shoulder. "I've won nothing. Of course you realize that."

He turns towards me, assuming the entirety of his impressive height, and glowers down at me from his grotesque face.

"Nothing?" he bellows. "You've ruined me! Surely that was your intent from the start. You wanted me to go out in the most painful way possible, and you shall succeed in that. I thought nothing could exceed the horror of living life with this hellish countenance. But I see I was wrong. Nothing—_NOTHING_—could possibly exceed the pain that I am feeling at this very moment."

"You love her." I sigh dreamily and take a seat upon some plush velvet chair, watching him with an odd aching in the pit of my stomach. I smile condescendingly, a smile that he ignores.

"I love her," he affirms, his wrought with emotion. "Heaven take pity upon me."

I laugh my high, tinkling laugh and shake my head so that luxurious golden curls spill over my shoulder. "Take pity upon _you_? Heaven turned a blind eye to your anguish long ago, dear prince. What I do not understand is why you're letting her go. You say you love her."

He continues pacing, and his claws scratch at the stone floor, and I can tell by the way that the hair on his back is bristling that he's growing quite angry. This, of course, is my intent. I laugh again and watch him in glee. _Five, four, three, two..._

"You wish to know why I let her go? I suppose _you_ would fail to understand, as your concept of love deviates drastically from the normal interpretation. When you love someone, you forget your stupid, selfish motives and you just..." He covers his eyes with his massive paws, seemingly at a loss for words. "It will make Gabrielle happy to see her father, to be with him and her sisters once again. Knowing that she is happy-"

"Makes _you_ happy?" I ask, quirking a dubious brow. "Oh, Armel... Armel, Armel, Armel. I see that you love her, but what I cannot understand is _why_. She's a nice girl, but from what I recall you were never very interested in that sort. And yes, I imagine you've changed and become a better person-"

"You say that as if it were impossible," he interjects, studying me momentarily with those unnerving eyes of his. He casts his gaze to the floor and resumes his pacing, something like a smirk on his hideous facade.

"You know," he says, "I can't believe I ever thought you beautiful."

I am taken aback. I stare dumbly as it registers, a part of me waiting for some indication that he is joking. I frown.

I am beautiful. So much so, in fact, that mere mortals have trouble containing themselves when they see me. Statuesque in height, flaxen locks, sapphire eyes, high cheekbones... I put a hand to my face, dumbly, as if to feel whether I've suddenly succumbed to the effects of age. But the skin is smooth and taut. I'm perfect.

_He's_ deluded.

"You're joking," I snap, adjusting myself in the chair with a scowl. "I can glance at a man and he'll fall for me... like _that_. Don't you remember the good old days? All those counts and dukes—don't you recall how I ensnared them with the slightest of ease? What does Gabrielle have to boast? She is pretty, but certainly _not_ the beauty you think her. And she's shy and-"

"Modest and brilliant and kind. And she's passionate about things _worth_ being passionate about. Things outside herself. Like her family and—" He looks down at me, his shoulders slumping and a defeated look in his eyes. "I don't deserve her. I don't deserve to be loved by her. Not _her_. I suppose it is only right that I'm loved by a demon and cast aside by an angel. My sins are too great, and even if _you_ care nothing for those there must be someone who does. Someone who believes me unworthy of her. And they're right. I am."

I scoff. "Dear Lord, Armel, you've become quite the poet. It's all very lovely and tragic, of course. I'm certain the girl must like you quite a bit; after all, she _did_ let up her defenses. And now the spell and the castle simply cannot operate without her. Which means, I'm sorry to say, that you're fated to die. But I suppose you were relying upon that if your melodramatic declaration is any indication."

He straightens. "I will die," he murmurs. He closes his eyes and nods with arduous effort. "I supposed as much."

"I can't imagine there is anything I can do about it, but if you want me to try my hand at prolonging things..."

I offer this knowing that he will object. I suppose it is for my own sake. His death will bring about the end of an era. For all intents and purposes, Prince Armel was the center of my life for a hundred years, or more.

But I will move on. There will be other loves (and lovers) and other enchantments. I won't allow myself to waste away over a man (or beast, though I shall always think of him as he _was_) in love with another— not even another woman! A man in love with a sixteen-year-old _girl_ whose entire world revolves around books, flowers, and a father that _let_ her sacrifice herself so that he could go on living a comfortable life!

She's a fool. And he's an even bigger one. At least _she_ has naïveté as an excuse.

"I'll die," he says resolutely, waving me off. "It's best."

It's odd hearing my bellicose Prince Armel resigning himself to anything. Back in our golden days, he was as blunt and 'cruel' as he had to be to get his way. He used his power and influence, and I used my magic; we were one in the same. I glare at him now, regretting (a little) the curse and what it has made of him.

I cursed him because he didn't— _wouldn't_—love me. And now he's _this_ remorseful, reverent mess. I hate him. I hate that he refuses to be stirred to anger.

"Maybe she _will _come back," I offer facetiously, glancing at my nails. "After all, she made a promise, Armel. She's Catholic, is she not? A promise is a promise. Breaking a promise is lying; lying is a sin. And Hell is the punishment for sinning..."

I do my best not to laugh. It's all such hogwash.

"Don't mock her faith, Aurelie. I hope that she is right, if only so that your eternal damnation is a certainty." But he shrugs in mournful concession. "I suppose my ruin is guaranteed as well."

"You shall be spared by no divine mercy?" I ask, feigning innocence. "Even with all your repentance?"

He glares at me. "I don't care about retribution or forgiveness to any God. I know what I did was terrible. I knew it then. I can't repent for all that. I'm not worried about Him."

He pauses for a moment, a pensive smile forming on his face. "Do you know what she thinks? She thinks I'm of a cursed race. The race of... Cain, was it? Yes. The cursed race of Cain. And she said it was unfair that one race be punished so by God when all the rest kill and murder and plunder their brothers now anyway. I don't have any idea what she's talking about, but I know that she pities me for my— _state_. It's a laugh, isn't it? She pities me, after all the things I've done to ruin her. She doesn't think it's my fault that I am what I am."

It's not. It's mine. Or don't you remember?" I answer, impatient and perturbed; sick and tired of listening to him sing her endless praises. '_Gabrielle is this', 'Gabrielle is that', 'Gabrielle is an angel come to earth'. _Spare me of it!

"You were simply an instrument of my punishment. It was not only you. I do not know if it was providence, either. Perhaps it was simply the order of things. You cannot murder and kill and betray without some consequence," he says. His newly-acquired philosophy is grating on my nerves.

"Certainly," I agree dully. "Even so, isn't it better to live thirty years getting all that you want through any means necessary than living one hundred in false piety, denying yourself that which your heart desires most?"

He shrugs. "Perhaps. I had riches and women then, Aurelie; that is true. The sin and debauchery made me happy. I _was_ happy. In my own twistedway, I was _very_ happy. That I cannot deny, nor will I make any attempt to. But what good does that sick pleasure do me now, when the only good and pure thing that has ever been in my life can never be mine?"

Armel moves to the window and leans on the ledge, looking out onto the sumptuous garden below with eyes that reflect what must be the pinnacle of misery and grief. For a moment I have the silly, human longing to ease his pain. But he is her blubbering, philosophical mess to clean up. Or abandon. It makes me sad to think that I shall never again be able to come to this palace to tease him.

I will overcome all this—mark my words. I have a way of moving on.

It is _her_ fault. Not mine, nor his. Her father's first, but hers foremost. The stupid blundering fool should have simply gone home without searching for a damned rose. And Gabrielle! Why did she have to be so— so much like herself? Why did she have to be some so damnably human: so vulnerable and sweet, so ill-tempered at times and good-natured at others?

He could have lived centuries more. He could have been mine. _Always_.

Armel laughs after a prolonged pause. "It's funny. Sometimes, when with her, I forget that I am a beast altogether. Other times her presence makes it all the more unbearable. Everything about her..."

He shakes his head laughs again. "I am being pessimistic— selfish!—when I say that I am being punished. I did not deserve her to begin with, and yet for eight months she was my companion."

Now he leans his forehead against the cold glass window-pane. "She is merely a merchant's daughter! I tell myself, as you tell me, that there should be no reason that I love her as I do. Why, then, does she have me under such a spell? _Why_?"

His breaths are labored as he pounds the window with a clenched fist.

I say nothing for a long time. Curling my slender fingers around the arms of the chair, I sigh and search my mind for some meaningful way to end things.

_'She'll be sorry. It will torture her forever, you know.'_ I contemplate saying this, if only to end things on a high note. If only so that he will die thinking that I was not so bad. But I _am_ as bad as he thinks I am. I'd rather be 'wretched' than insincere. Besides, saying that will not make things any easier. Nothing will.

I say nothing. I will not bid him farewell. It would be pointless, ultimately. He does not want anything of me. So I leave, silently.


End file.
